Warmth
by Delu
Summary: Captured in the middle of the night, Harry is taken to Voldemort. But why doesn't He look like the snake man we all know and love? What happens at the end of their little 'encounter? No real plot, just slash. TomHarry Oneshot. Darkish.


**A/N:** I got bored, I got mellow: This is the product. Has slash, yoai, male on male contact, whatever you want to call it. Sexual Content, too. Beware. No real plot . . . like I said, I got mellow; I get stupid when I get mellow. I just wanted to do a lemon, and tada, here it is. Here's to all you Tom/Harry fans. Oh, and for all my Knowing the Enemy readers, just think of this as a kind of preface for later chapter slash scenes, if you will. -smirk- Enjoy.

**Word Count:** 1525

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**Warmth**

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-V-

It was dark, so dark. Hands were everywhere, but nowhere. They grabbed him roughly, but not enough to bruise, he could tell; Vernon had done it enough so that he knew if he would bruise or not. They shoved him, but not hard enough to break anything. They hissed obscenities into his ears, quietly, ever so quietly.

Why? He did not know. He thought they would have been shouting at him how they would kill him, beating him into a bloody pulp, like Vernon had done so many times before; but they didn't. They grabbed him and shoved him and hissed at him, but no real harm was done. Why, though? They had every reason to, he was their enemy, he was the 'Boy-Who-Lived,' the one prophesied to defeat them all.

He wished he could . . . he wished that he . . . he wished, simply put; something Vernon had taught him never to do. After so many beatings, so many endless hours in his cupboard, it was drilled into his mind permanently. So then why did he wish? Why did he hope, did he dream? Why was he so bloody curious, when it would most likely get him killed?

So many questions, so many ridiculous questions to ask. He hoped that his bravery wouldn't fail him as he stood before the Dark Lord; Voldemort, ruler of the Death Eaters, commander of the Purebloods. Damn his curiosity, it would get him killed one day. _Probably today,_ he mused as he was roughly pushed before the the half snake, half man.

As he stared up into the ruby eyes of his nemeses, he realized that this was not the Voldemort that had been erected back in his fourth year, only three years ago. It had only been three? Yes, it had only been three, though it had seemed like so much longer. But this man was not Voldemort - who in himself barely looked human at all - this man was Tom Riddle, or an older version of the sixteen year old, at least.

His eyes were still the same crimson color, still as scarlet as the blood that Harry could feel traveling down his shoulder blade. No, the Death Eaters had not done that;Vernon had gotten mad at the sable haired youth for not making dinner quick enough the few hours before the dark wizards had captured him; or was it because he did not do a good enough job on his 'chores' that day? Harry could hardly remember, his mind refused to keep off of the here and now.

But one thing his mind refused to differ from was the incessant questions racing threw him; why did he wish? Why did he hope, dream? Why were these men, whom were supposed to hate him, want to kill him, only tossing him about a bit? _Curiosity killed the cat_, Harry thought wryly as he stared into the red orbs of Voldemort, for even though he looked different, he was still the same cruel man that had tried to kill him over the years. _The only constant, _his mind supplied, no matter how unwanted the thought came.

"Why?" His voice croaked out. Funny really, when _was_ the last time he had actually spoken? Actually screamed from one of his 'lessons' with Vernon? He honestly couldn't remember. Maybe it was before he had gotten on the Hogwarts Express at the end of the year, when he had yelled at Granger and Weasley. They just wouldn't leave him alone, not even for a moment. And when had they become Granger and Weasley . . . ?

He had thought that this question would invoke at least some inquisitorial glance from Voldemort, or a good _Crucio _for his 'cheek,' as Vernon refereed to his questions. But all he got was a simple nod from the forty something year old (at least in appearance) Dark Lord; a nod that invoked, not a inquisitorial glance, but an understanding and knowing nod of - of what? Approval? Understanding? Empathizing? Now he was really confused as to what this night would bring.

The Dark Lord rose from his thrown, for wont of a better word, and descended the dais, ending up standing before a very tired, utterly confused Harry Potter. The young man's weary emerald eyes narrowed slightly at the man whom had tried to kill him so many times before. He knew that he should be _doing_ something, but he didn't feel the need to. Where was that urge that he felt when he was in a situation such as this? That urge to fight, that urge to destroy anything and everything dark? It was like it simply . . . didn't exist.

"Tell me, Harry," Tom purred into his ear. "Tell me what is different between now," he swept his arms in a semi-circular motion, defining the situation, "and the last time we met." The Death Eaters were gone, Harry noted absently as a door softly clicked shut behind him somewhere.

They were alone, the two of them. Harry stood there blankly, not defensively, not looking around at his surroundings. He just stood, staring before him, feeling the heat of the Dark Lord's body behind him, so close. Why was he so close? He did not know. Why was he not defending himself? _From what?_ his mind brought back. He did not know. What was different between then and now? That was something far too large to answer.

So many things were different now, so many feelings, so many positions, looks, thoughts, actions. Everything was different. Everything.

"Everything," he whispered, his thoughts slipping into words. It startled him at how quiet he was, how quiet he could be. Yes, he had been quiet as a child, shy as well, but only because he rarely ever spoke out. And at Hogwarts? He felt a pull, a pull telling him that he needed to do something, anything, to prove himself of his title, the 'Boy-Who-Lived.' Gods, how he hated that name, that accursed name damned him to the lowest levels of his soul, kept him from being normal, being _him_.

Tom was in front of him now, he noted, eyes staring at the man's shoulders, chin. He was only a half a head taller than the youth, Harry had thought that Tom had been taller. Maybe he had been, or maybe it was just the power that Tom exuded that gave him an appearance of such greatness. The man walked closer to him; Harry did not move, did not blink.

"Yes, Harry, everything is different now."

That sentence, that simple sentence, caused Harry to look up into the scarlet eyes of Voldemort, of Tom, of his nemesis - or was he his nemesis? Tom shifted closer; Harry didn't move, though his eyes remained on Tom's.

Lips came on to his, not crashing, not bruising, not satiny soft. They were warm, though, and they held something in them, something that felt like . . . comfort? Understanding? Whatever it was, Harry gave into it. He gave into whatever he was feeling, whatever was happening; he just couldn't hold on any longer. Arms wrapped around him, creating even more warmth between the two; Harry closed his eyes. So much warmth, so much. His breathing became quicker, their lips became rougher as they continued.

Before he knew it, his back was up against a wall, one that he expected to be cold, but wasn't. So much warmth. He hoped the warmth enveloped him, surrounded him completely. He didn't know what it was doing, but he knew that it just felt so . . . so un-cold. He couldn't think anymore, his mind wouldn't let him.

The lips moved to his neck; he tilted his head to the side for more access. His breath was still coming quickly, even though the kiss had stopped. Was he really kissing Voldemort? Was Tom actually kissing his neck, undoing his shirt, throwing it to the side, as he did his own? He didn't know; he didn't care.

The lips were back on his again, arms bracing him to the wall, lifting him up. He wrapped his legs around Tom's waist. It became harder and harder, as it went; lips now bruised, roughly bitten. Tom thrusted up against Harry, hands splayed across the youth's hips, gripping him in place. They tried to come closer together; they wanted more warmth. They _needed_ more warmth; it felt as if their entire existence depended upon it.

Moments later, each pair of trousers was thrown to the side, right along with the discarded robes, shirts, shoes, socks. Underwear came next. Hard members met; Harry took in a gasp of air, Tom hissed out in arousal. More and more thrusting, more and more heat. More and more and more until Harry shuddered and released himself to the nirvana of orgasm. Tom came soon after.

The warmth had not left, though, it was still there, just as entangled with them as their limbs were with the others. Harry's eyes became heavy. It was dark, so dark now. But it wasn't a bad dark like before, it was warm, it was whole. He drifted off into sleep, the warmth a blanket around him.


End file.
